Every State Of The Union address would be a live show, with ‘Ye dropping policy in-between hit after hit.

Every time his approval ratings would start to dip he’d release a mix-tape.

Think of the North Korean diss tracks!

The idea of the Kardashians being that close to real power is so delightfully preposterous that it must happen.

He’d be the only President with his own avant-garde, haute-couture fashion line.

He’d hire Alejandro Jodorowsky to redesign the interior of the White House into The Sanctum of Supreme Power.

Jay-Z: Secretary of State. “Mandatory solar panels on every government building?! You’re crazy for this one, ‘Hov!”

At least he owns up to the fact that he’s totally narcissistic, attention-seeking and ambitious. All basic qualifications for being Commander in Chief.

He isn’t afraid to speak his mind. Which would make things highly entertaining, up until the point he calls out Putin for looking like a wrinkled ball-sac, thus triggering a nuclear holocaust that would incinerate us all.

He’s still a more viable, appealing candidate than pretty much every other politician currently in existence.

A couple of years ago, my friend Shawna Franks (founder of Space 55, a phenomenal actress and an all-around amazing human being) asked me if I could write a bunch of Phyllis Diller jokes for her. She got asked to do a show with Jackie Fontaine at the Alwun House, where she had to impersonate Diller. Taking the ol’ improv adage of always saying yes, I took on the task (knowing nothing about P.D. at the time). A few hours after watching her on YouTube later, this is what I came up with.

JOKES FOR PHYLLIS DILLER

-My body’s in such bad shape Picasso couldn’t paint a picture of it.

-Could you believe I once entered a beauty contest? Well, I tried to enter. They wouldn’t let me past security! I had to use the doggy door.

-I haven’t given up on my looks, though: I’m a sucker for lost causes.

-I keep telling the Salvation Army that if they want to make more money, they should stick a photo of my face on their bell-ringers’ jars and tell folks they’re collecting donations to get me a face-lift.

-When I go to bed at night, I sweat so much I’ve got to wear floaties on my arms to keep from drowning in it. My old man Fang, he just rolls over and doggy-paddles through it. When it’s hot out, we just toss our mattress out on the lawn and let the neighborhood kids slip and slide on it.

-You know those how-to dance instructions, where they show those outlines of feet? So you know where to step? When I learnt how to dance, I thought those instructions were showing me which feet to step on.

-I’ve got feet so big, when people see pictures of Bigfoot in the tabloids, they think it’s a missing persons photo of my son.

-My cooking’s not good. I’m not ashamed to admit it. My old man Fang complains about it all the time. “Why couldn’t you do it the way Mamma makes it?” If I could do things her way and sit on a buffalo til it dies, I would. That old bag. HUGE broad. Last time we took her to New York, they had to send in airplanes to shoot her off of the Empire State Building.

-Fang boozes so much, when he cuts himself shaving, hobos line up in front of our house begging to lick his face.

-His breath is so bad they have him cough on coal mine canaries to put ‘em out of their misery.

-I got a face like an opera singer’s got a voice: both of ‘em shatter glass.

“The artist has some internal experience that produces a poem, a painting, a piece of music. Spectators submit themselves to the work, which generates an inner experience for them. But historically it’s a very new, not to mention vulgar, idea that the spectators experience should be identical to, or have anything to do with, the artist’s. That idea comes from an over-industrialized society which has learned to distrust magic.”